There is a Light that Never Goes Out
by GrassDitch
Summary: Four years after Roundview, Naomi is in her final year of university when she finds herself in a unexpected meeting with Emily. Written from both points of view.
1. I'll Meet You at the Cemetary Gates

**Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my first FanFic. I'm not asking you to be gentle, I know I won't be. You may have noticed I'm a Smiths fan. I'll try not to make that a regular occurrence. Other than that, please read and enjoy. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. **

**-GrassDitch**

Stepping onto the path, it feels good to taste the air again. I've been cooped up in my 10ft by 8ft room for the past three days, contemplating what reaching this milestone means. It's the beginning of my final degree year, and as I set off from the doorstep I feel liberated by the chilled September sun on my skin and the crisp air, teetering on the edge of autumn as I teeter on the edge of adult life. It's funny, the things you take for granted as you grow up, only now have I begun to consider what it really means to step out into the world. Academia is a wonderful safety net, no matter what unexpected and strange turns my life has taken; it has always been there to fall back on. It's wonderful to be completely void of any real, life changing responsibility.

I pick up my pace as I leave the student area of the city and laugh at my optimism as a slight bounce creeps into my step. Just three years ago I would have snorted at the idea of portraying even the slightest form of enthusiasm. But things change, people change. I untangle my headphones and hang them around my neck, feeling the chill of the plastic send a shiver down my spine as it comes into contact with the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. I press play on my mp3, stopping on the street corner to light a cigarette and a smile stretches across my lips, cigarette drooping from my mouth as the sound of The Smiths seeps into my ears: _"A dreaded sunny day and I meet you at the cemetery gates, Keats and Yeats are on your side, while Wilde is on mine." _I've adored this band since I first heard the words "punctured bicycle" seep from the speakers in my mum's car when I was still in primary school. It does nothing but elevate my overly optimistic mood.

Eventually, I find myself outside my favourite cafe; I swear if my feet were given independent life they would still choose to bring me here. It's called "Leaves", and is the kind of establishment that boasts the sale of one hundred per cent hemp products and only fair trade beans. More importantly, it's the best coffee I've tasted this side of the Channel. I nod in approval of the ever changing canvases on the walls, the products of little known artists and sold for meagre prices, considering the time that is spent on each abstract expression. The cashier raises his head in acknowledgement as I approach the counter, "Hey Naomi, let me guess... A double espresso for your tired, essay wracked brain?"

"Not today, Mark, term's only just begun. But I was meaning to ask you, can I set up a tab for my dissertation or do I have to wait until I'm stressed and elbow deep in referencing?" I raise an eyebrow- it's an expression that I can never quite resist.

"You could have all the coffee you liked free of charge if you'd just set a date," he smirked in challenge. I think this conversation never quite gets old for Mark, he's extremely persistent.

"I've told you, nature's just not on your side" I say, sauntering towards my favourite spot.

"Cappuccino, then?"

"Just grand," I call over my shoulder as I take my corner seat. I just love the atmosphere in this place. I observe the other customers, mostly in pairs and threes, with the occasional loner, buried to their ears in the pages of a book. The hum of conversation reaches me in soft waves and disperses, rising again and again as I observe a man with rough dread locks in an old brown jumper spread his fingers, palms facing his chest, and circle his forearms towards his partner across the table like he can fan the essence of his thoughts into his friend's brain. I adore watching-

"Your coffee," My thought process is interrupted as Mark places the bowl shaped, white cup, steaming, onto the table.

"Thanks" I say distractedly as he leaves. I pick up my people watching, observing a girl in the corner, of around seventeen, slouched over her coffee like all her worries and woes are having a tea party on her shoulders. She's stirring absent-mindedly as she stares out of the window. God, she reminds me of myself when I was in college. A part of me wants to get up and sit with her, tell her, whatever it is, it's probably not the end of the world. I think the better of it, there's something wonderfully alive about adolescence, despite the feeling the world is against you. I kind of miss that, it was so _intense._ I shake my head at the thought, remove a book from my bag and begin to pour over the short stories contained within.

After about ten minutes I recall my coffee, and, setting the book down, I cup it in outstretched hands and raise it to my lips, blowing gently and inhaling the sweet, strong scent of its contents. As I tilt the cup, I close my eyes to drink it all in, both literally and figuratively. The warmth travels through me and a little utterance, an "mmm," escapes my throat. God, I love coffee.

Leaving the cafe, I wave goodbye to Mark and step onto the pavement, hunching over to protect my lighter from the oncoming breeze. As my cigarette is lit, I turn my back to the wind, to find myself facing my old haunt.

"Thinking of a coffee, old stranger?" Shit. I recognise that voice, and as the pieces fall quickly into place, like falling dominoes, a warm rush blows through my chest.

"G-God, E-Emily, where have you been?" I screw up my face at how bloody stupid I sound. Get a grip, love. It's been years.

"Nice to see you, too, Naomi. I've been great thanks. Really, do you call that a greeting?" She grins and raises her eyebrows. How about that, Emily Fitch is now the sarcasm queen, what a change; what doesn't seem to have changed is how wonderful she looks in skinny jeans. It's just effortless, she looks like she just got out of bed in a vintage looking Rolling Stones T-shirt, grey jeans and converse. I should probably answer once I've stopped bloody staring.

"Sorry, I thought I'd been generous enough this year to escape the ghost of Christmas past. But how _are _you doing? It's good to see you, you know."

"I think three years catching up takes a little more than a chat on the pavement, besides, it's chilly out here." Yeah, it bloody well would be in just a T-shirt. "So, fancy that coffee you were thinking about?"

I stepped back into the cafe, following Emily and making grand gestures of throat cutting and silence towards Mark, who stared at me like I'd just lost my mind, but, thankfully, remained silent.

And that is how I found myself deep in conversation with the three year absentee Emily Fitch.


	2. The Ghost of Christmas Past?

**Alright, so here we have Emily's perspective. This is a slightly shorter chapter and perhaps the length of these will improve as I go on, but I still feel like an amateur, so bare with me. Things ought to be panning out fairly soon.**

**-GrassDitch**

I was counting the cracks in the pavement when I saw her, stood there with her back to the wind and her blonde hair curling and swaying around her pale face. One minute I was watching her light her cigarette, observing how long and dark and beautiful her eyelashes appear against her cheeks and now, here I am, the words being pulled from my lips by some unknown force. They slipped before I even had the chance to bite my tongue, gather my senses and slip past, unnoticed. Three years of not seeing a face does funny things to me.

"Thinking of a coffee, old stranger?" Honestly, Emily. She's just lit a fucking cigarette; she's more likely to be leaving than she is arriving. To hell with it.

"G-God, E-Emily, where have you been?" Well, that's a question and a half. Where the fuck _have_ I been? Everywhere and nowhere, I suppose. No matter where I've been or how I've changed she still looks like the same old Naomi, how strange a role reversal to hear her stumbling over her words.

"Nice to see you, too, Naomi. I've been great thanks. Really, do you call that a greeting" And the tables continue to turn, I wonder where I got the idea for that reply. Looks like she is too, the way she's staring like I just grew another limb. I notice her collar bone showing at the edge of the neck on her white T-shirt, I just want to-

"Sorry, I thought I'd been generous enough this year to escape the ghost of Christmas past. But how _are _you doing? It's good to see you, you know." Ah, there she is. The Naomi I knew and loved. It was a bit poor for her standards, though. It's nowhere near Christmas. I soften a little thinking on her last comment; I need to talk to her properly. It has just been way too long.

"I think three years catching up takes a little more than a chat on the pavement, besides, it's chilly out here." Jesus, I should have worn a jacket. "So, fancy that coffee you were thinking about?"

She shakes her head like she's just woken from a daze, she's strangely ditzy. I wonder if she's sleeping okay... Maybe someone's keeping her up... "Yeah, sure, that sounds nice." Nice. It sounds nice.

I raise my eyebrow at her poor choice of vocabulary, "smashing." I smirk at her and she smiles sheepishly. This really is strange, and as we walk into the cafe the guy behind the counter doesn't help my growing self-consciousness. He's looking at me in such a strange way that I'm beginning to think that I have some toothpaste on my chin or something, and bow my head, raising my arm to wipe at my chin with my finger.

We order our coffees and I decide to take a seat in the corner. As Naomi sits down she looks around with a half smile and rolls her eyes. I'd still give my right arm to read her thoughts.

"So, how are you?" She gives me a lazy half smile and her face softens a little. She seems to have calmed down since our exchange outside.

"I'm well, you know, just carrying on as usual. How about you?"

"I'm good, you know? I'm really good." She nods her head, like she's trying to convince not just me, but herself, too. Has she got someone else? "Else"? Come on, Emily. You haven't seen each other for years, there's no else. I've not been exactly celibate all this time.

"Who is she then?" I try to sound both curious and cheery at the same time, when I really don't want to know the answer and I'm not quite sure why I asked.

"You really do underestimate me, Emily Fitch." Her brow furrows as she raises her eyebrows cynically. Maybe I do, Naomi Campbell. Maybe I do.

"And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?" Here we are again, playing the roles. If I'm honest, I like it.

"It means, Emily, that it's obvious by that simple assumption that you think me incapable of being contented without someone to hold my hand and guide me through the day," she raised her eyebrows, bowing her head a little in a very cynical, but not so sincere, glance. It's nice to see that some things haven't changed. "And I am. _Perfectly _capable. Besides, why must everyone be paired off these days in order to be in a state of happiness? It's bloody ridiculous, it's no-"

"STOP! Please, Lord, stop before you start." I felt a smile creep onto my face and I could see Naomi trying to suppress her amusement, but suddenly laughter was erupting from the both of us. God, she's so beautiful laughing and smiling like this. It's so refreshing from the moody Naomi, who was so full of angst, that I'm used to.

But as the conversation turned to me it was so much more difficult to just relax. What do you tell a girl about a life without her that you took so long to even imagine?


	3. Filling in the Gaps

To hear Emily laugh again makes me so ecstatic it's ridiculous, here I am shaking my legs under the table like a child waiting for dessert. All too quickly the silence begins to seep through the cracks created over the past few years, and the bigger ones we forged even before that. I just have to break it, see her smiling and engaged again.

"Three years seems like a long time to be sat on your arse, or have you actually done something with your life?" She humours me with a little chuckle that doesn't seem quite heartfelt, but it pacifies me anyway. I catch her eye and I fell the corners of my mouth turn up, clearly I hold the look too long because she looks away, tucking her crimson hair behind her ear absently before she answers.

"Well, after you and me... Yeah, I moved out of Bristol and for a couple years I studied music up in Leeds. I need something new and fresh and that was just it. It's so easy just to lose yourself in music," as she said I watched her balling her hands into fists, and quickly and passionately spreading her fingers again, and as her eyes began to light and we began to feel at ease again I could see the release captivated in her gesture. "I loved it. Fuck all use it was, I still can't get a decent job, but I _loved _it." I didn't even know she played anything. I'll have to ask her about it later. I think I could listen to her talk like this forever. "After that I got a temp job punching numbers and took off. And that's what I've been doing for the last year or so. Working and leaving."

God, she's so independent. I admire her for it. Suddenly I wonder what I've been doing stuck here for all this time. I enjoy my course, but this sounds so much more... Free, for want of a better word. I doubt any of us are really truly free... The way my thoughts run after two consecutive cups of coffee is just not appropriate for this conversation. "Leaving to where, exactly?"

"India, South America, South Africa, all volunteer programmes, just helping people, you know? It's the best way to travel. I did some backpacking around Europe, too."

"So, you just work until you have enough money to leave and then you go?"

"You don't have to sound so disbelieving, do you?" Alright, I'll admit it. I did sound pretty unconvinced...

"Oh, s-sorry! It's not that I don't think you can do it, or you shouldn't or anything. I mean, it's a great thing to do, really lovely. Just, lovely, you know? I just didn't expect it and-" I watched Emily's eyebrows slowly rising towards her hairline until she was sat wide-eyed and staring. "I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"Yeah, you're rambling, Naomi." She sounded so dead pan that my stomach suddenly became heavy and dropped through the floor. I could feel the blood seeping into my cheeks and I expected to take off and begin to float any minute, like a hot air balloon. That's what I was, just too much hot air. Emily was starting to laugh as she noticed the change in my expression, and all I felt was more confused, but I smiled in spite of myself.

"You did that purposefully..." I said, pouting and wringing my hands.

"You're forgetting, Naomi. I _know _you're not that sweet and innocent" She was looking at me in disbelief.

"Damn! Foiled again!" We were both laughing again, and if I was happy when I set out today I was quite simply ecstatic now.

"Out with it then, conversations are two sided things, in case you'd forgotten," The look she was giving couldn't have been more mischievous if she had stuck out her tongue and wriggled her finger behind her ears. "What exactly does one Naomi Campbell do with three years?"

"There's not much to tell, really. I'm studying Politics and English. It's all very idealistic. I just study and go out. I read a lot... I still see Cook sometimes..."

"Cook! Really?" She was looking way too shocked.

"Yeah, he's good fun. I mean, he's more stable now than he ever was in college."

"I suppose you could say that for more than just Cook," Ouch. I didn't expect that, and it doesn't look like Emily did, either. She's avoiding my gaze, so I take the opportunity to look at her, really take her in. I wonder if I'll ever stop adoring her. "But anyway, I ought to be getting off. Got a job to find, after all," Dressed in that? Hell, I'd employ her. "Do you want to take my number?"

I want to take more than just her number.


	4. The Truth Is, You Should Lie With Me

**Howdy, folks. Here's a few things you might find yourself curious about after reading this chapter: firstly, the song Naomi refers to is a little number by a band called Say Anything (follow the link to listen), and Sylvia Plath, who is a bit of a running theme in Naomi's part in this chapter. Using ripened fruit as a metaphor for opportunities is a Plath reference, too. Maybe Naomi is a bit more lost than she thinks she is. Anyway, thanks for reading and extra special happy thanks to those who've reviewed and added the story. It's been rather encouraging.**

**-GrassDitch**

"Miss Fitch," I'd been staring into space so long I'd forgotten where I was. Blinking, I shook my head and turned to the rather stern and tired looking man in front of me. "Miss Fitch, do you have any previous experience in secretarial work?" To be honest, mate, I couldn't give a rat's arse for secretarial work right now. I paint the sweetest smile I can muster onto my face, Katie would be proud.

"Yes, in fact, I spent three months last winter working as a secretary for a building supplies firm," I hit him with the smile again and he sighs, softening a little. His expression says that he's seen my type before. I think he needs to see something that he hasn't seen before. "Besides, spending time helping to build a school in a remote Indian village really_ drives_ home the value of organisational skills and team work. It's a _very _versatile and enlightening experience," I tilt my head to the side, slightly raising my eyebrows and annunciating each buzz word with just enough enthusiasm to sound on the verge of insincere. I find that with some men, they like to think you don't know what you're talking about before they find that you do. Charm them a little and they hang to your every word.

"Really? Well, it seems like you might just manage an impressive CV after all, Miss Fitch." See? I've done this so many times by this point it's become second nature to me. I've turned so many tricks with these agency firms, they're becoming my regular clients, not vice versa. "Now, take this form and fill it in. Bring it back to us at a time convenient for you and we'll discuss your employment options."

"Thanks," I take the form and glide out of the building. I wonder he was the second person to watch my arse as I walked away today.

***

Well, it's been a more productive day than I had first expected. All I set out to do was have a coffee and maybe browse the shelves of a bookshop or two, but here I am, walking home with a scrap of paper in my hand and two cups of coffee sloshing in my stomach. I can honestly say I have never been so fascinated with an eleven digit number before. Or any number for that matter. The curve of the eight, the swift slope of the seven. I look at her name "Emily" and, pressing the paper to my cheek, a faint wave of nostalgia encompasses me. So much so I have to stop in the street and briefly shake my head, blinking hard to remind myself where I am. Other than the physical things I've gathered, I've gained an incredible amount. I have an old friend... An old flame... No, an old friend, back. I take out my phone and enter her number, still stood in the middle of the street. I'm not sure exactly why I'm surprised when a large man in a dark parka pushes past and I stumble. I stare after him darkly but am again distracted by my phone. I hold my phone up in front of my face and gaze proudly at the new entry in my phone book. A visit from the old on the verge of the new, it was kind of refreshing.

I inhale sharply, should I text her? I only left twenty minutes ago, I best not. I fold my phone and neglectfully shove it into my pocket, turning my thoughts to the conversation with which I occupied my afternoon I resume walking.

She seemed so sure of herself, compared to her old self. "Old self"... What a ridiculous concept, that someone can just shed a skin, like a snake. I must be cynical, most people associate metamorphosis with butterflies. In my experience, most people are easier to compare to snakes. Damn all this caffeine. I'm turning into Sylvia fucking Plath. A skittish Sylvia Plath. Okay, I'm nothing like her.

Okay, thoughts straight. Emily. I repeat it a few times in my head, eventually finding myself walking to a rhythm of Emily Fitch, which, judging on the she walked out of that coffee shop, is a bloody wonderful beat to sway to. I will text her, but I'll wait for tonight. We can meet up, go do something. I'm curious to hear more of what she's been doing; it seemed that she ended the conversation rather abruptly. I mean India, South Africa; it makes me wonder exactly what I've been doing here in Bristol. I realise getting a degree means I'm employable, I can live on a decent salary in total comfort. You know, nine 'til five, steady job, monogamous relationship, join a wine tasting club and read Sophie Kinsella novels until I decide to pop one out and bring up a child. It scares me to death that, staying here, all my opportunities will just ripen and fall out of my grasp and I'll fall into the routine that so many people work for, expect to find. What kind of life is that?

Suddenly, I find myself in front of my black and rummage to find my keys. I drag my feet up the stairs and on entering my room I flick on the stereo. _You're a pretty face, you should like me, I want to get used by you._ Thanks, Max, just what I need right now. I fish a book from my bag and collapse onto my bed, immersing my thoughts between the pages.


	5. A Grand Day Out

**Happy Easter, y'all. Personally, I don't care for it. What I do care for is a week's holiday, so hopefully the updates will become more regular. Ciao,**

**-GrassDitch**

I got the job, of course. There must be something incredibly appealing about my CV because I haven't been turned down yet, despite turning up to interviews in jeans. At least I hope it's my CV and air of capability, rather than my employment rate correlating with the sex of the interviewer. It doesn't really matter; it keeps me in home and out of country.

I slide up the front of my phone, but still no messages. It's strange how it takes an employer a single day to decide to employ me and inform me about it, but it takes Naomi more than that to grow a pair and text me. It's unfortunate, I don't start until Monday and that's nearly a week away, I could have used the company. I'm yet to decide whether I approve of the changes I've seen in her so far, I'd like the chance to suss her out. Again. I can't just sit here twiddling my hair and regretting that we didn't exchange numbers, that I just gave her my own.

My phone beeps and I jump a little in my seat, I pick it up eagerly and text the message. _This is your network offering you free evening and weekend mobile internet. _Oh, fuck off. I wonder how they manage to do that. Send a message every time you're expecting a text. I stretch my legs down the sofa, feeling my muscles stretch, and arch my back to extend the feeling. Sinking back into sitting I quickly swing myself around. I can't just sit here; it's not in my nature to wait around. God knows I did enough of that in college. I grab my keys, and this time a jacket, and head out of the door. I waited around for my sister to relinquish her throne, for some strength to go in me so I could knock her off it, I waited for Naomi. I waited for Naomi longer than I should have waited for anyone. And here I am again, waiting for her message so my life can resume and I can get some form of excitement.

I love this early autumn weather. I get the impression that I'm the only one, the way everyone I see on the street is beginning to huddle in for winter, their limbs drawn into their bodies, heads drawn into their scarves you can almost see them thinking "I have enough to hide from already..." Amongst the long drawl of pedestrians I see a head bobbing intermittently above the grey crowd. Finally somebody with a little life in them, although I must admit they seem to be an ex convict, the way they're throwing their head sporadically from side to side, irrevocably suspicious of the people around them. A dark bomber jacket comes into view and I begin to recognise that swagger, and it makes me think that punk certainly is not dead. I roll my eyes as he approaches.

"Ah, Cook. You look on edge as-" He grabs my arm, spinning me round and pulling me with him.

"Nice to see you, Red, places to go, you and me," I glance at him, trying to figure out his expression. Not so easy, this one.

"And how do you know I don't have anywhere to go?"

"You're in Bristol, love." Well, that was it. After an answer like that he could drag me pretty much anywhere.

"So, where are we going?"

"We're picking up," his pace quickens. "Right," he veers right and I nearly lose my balance, I begin to feel thankful for his grip on my arm.

"Right, what exactly?" We take a second harsh right down a small alleyway. "It smells like piss..."

"Yep, an ounce," this is just not making sense. "How are you anyway, Red?"

"Ugh, I'm good. I'm good, yourself?" I'm just too confused to make any other reply, still curious as to what it is we're picking up, though.

"Smashing, mate, just smashing, will be even better once this is over with," I find I'm being dragged across an abandoned construction site towards the skeleton of what may have been intended to become a multi-storey car park. "This one's a right arse. Barely worth my time, but he gives me good deals." I'm sure he does. I would be intensely worried by now if I was in anyone else's company, which strikes me as ironic. I spot a shadowy figure stood beneath a square concrete pillar, battleship grey.

"That him? So, what have you been doing with yourself? Naomi says you've calmed down."

"Calmed down? Am revving. Yeah, that'd be him, the tosser. You know me, Ems, this and that. It's all been good." He lets go of my arm and strides forward, flinging his arms wide like he was meeting his oldest and best friend, "Hey, big man! What have you got for me this week?" Cook approaches the shady guy who is hunched over in his dull, worn hoodie. He looks like a pathetic vulture. Remaining where I am, I watch the deal go down, and surely enough, after a few minutes Cook heads back towards me, grinning with a thousand teeth as the vulture man hurries off into shadows. Cook stops directly in front of me and drops a bag in my hands triumphantly. "Weed, Ems. Remember that stuff? I mean, you use to do drugs, what do you do now? Accountant, office clerk? No, don't tell me. You're a secretary, right?"

"Only until I can get out of here again"

"I got it? Nice one. Well, Red, that's green, grass, hash, fuckin' weed!" I'm not sure it's possible to draw out a vowel for that amount of time in usual conversation. "So skin up!" I peer at the bag in my hands, folding it over in my palms and feeling the plastic slide of it, the little bumps of the buds.

"Do you have skins?" That was a stupid question. He hands me a packet from his pocket and I fish in my own, finding an old train ticket that I begin to tear up. _This _is going to be an interesting day.

***


	6. Phone Calls and Flat Blocks

**This a pretty short update, but I thought I'd give you something for over the weekend because I probably won't be able to update until Monday. The next chapter should be a little longer. **

**-GrassDitch**

Class doesn't start until Monday, and that's almost a week from now, so I'm going to get my shit together and just text her. I gaze out of the window, hoping somehow the sky will offer me the answer for what to write in this message. It's around six, and the light is just beginning to disperse into another part of the world, leaving the sky looking backlit, like an old canvas. I decide to just keep it simple: "Hey, are you busy? Figured you might fancy a drink?" I debate for a while as to whether to ornament the message with an "x", and go for it in the end. A few minutes later, my phone begins to buzz across my desk and, picking it up; I glance at the caller I.D.

"Hey, Ems," there's silence for a minute on the other end, like she's taking some time to gather her thoughts.

"Naomi! How's it going? Look, you should come meet me," well, that was keen. I can't say I'm disappointed with her reaction.

"Okay, uh... Great. Where are you?" There's some rustling in the background and I hear the rumble of a low voice.

"At Cook's! It's just off-"

"Yeah," in spite of myself I can't omit the disappointment in my voice. "I know where Cook lives."

"Okay, I'll see you soon, then. Bye!"

"Goodb-" She's already hung up. What on Earth is she doing? Grabbing my keys and my MP3 player I head out the door. I pull my hood up against the cold and ghost-like, I proceed through the streets of Bristol. When I finally reach Cook's I can hear the thump of brick subdued loud music. I extend a cold, red finger and press the buzzer. Come on, Cook. It's fucking freezing. Why am I even here? I don't want to see Emily when she's out of her face on whatever Cook has decided to share today. I want to see her sober, happy and engaging. It just shows that I'm willing to settle for just half of my expectations.

"Blondie! Come the fuck on!" There's a brief buzz and I enter the building. The walls, once impartial magnolia, now a dark and dank grey, are scrawled with graffiti. I ascend the stairs as my eyes skim over the graveyard or lost loves, shared wisdom and general abuse. There's something a little too poignant about leaving a mark on something pure. It's why I haven't bothered to get a tattoo. Why spoil it? I reach the brown door of Cooks apartment, number hanging askew and a black scrawl across the brown reads "Who the fuck?" Who the fuck, indeed. I inhale and walk into the apartment.

Cook's flat is a tiny and dreary affair, situated in a tall pebble-dashed block, built hastily in the sixties to accommodate the ever increasing population. It consists of: one kitchen/living room, populated by the original large, pasty counters and a grill/oven combo that is clearly older than Cook himself, one bedroom, with one mattress and a thoroughly vandalised chest of draws, and last, but certainly not least, a mouldering bathroom, sporting the once white, now grey trend of the entire block. Is he living here legally? I doubt it; he's still technically a fugitive, though he's been avoiding capture now for around four years. The whole situation reminds me of when Thomas first arrived, except Thomas didn't put himself here. Thomas was innocent. To be honest, I'm still surprised that people wait for months for a place in a block like this, desperation being the only thing that allows the government to sit back and ignore the people who exist in these shit holes, with no real way out.

Upon entering, I'm immediately hit with the smoke. I can barely see to navigate my way to the couch, but in spite of this my greeting is more than enthusiastic.

"Naoms!" sang a small chorus of hazy voices. Strewn haphazardly across the room are three bodies, Cook and another guy propped against the radiator under the window and Emily spread across the couch. I was suddenly amazed by my intuition, glad that I stopped off for biscuits and drinks on the way here. It's pretty difficult to be cynical about something when you only receive smiles at your presence.

"I brought munch," I say triumphantly, holding the plastic bag up for all to see. It actually musters a small cheer. I sit next to Emily on the couch and she passes me a joint. If this is their poison, I can more than cope.

"Ey, I doubt you'll need that Naoms, we've been hot boxing this space all day. Just... Sit back and enjoy," thanks for stating the obvious there, Cook. The atmosphere is bloody stifling. The Smith's are playing on the stereo. I decide I'm comfortable here.

***


	7. Not Dancing, but Something Else

**Hey guys, I'm sorry about the late update. I was distracted by a beautiful lady, Stieg Larsson and Japanese food. If you ask me, it's a pretty good excuse, but I'm biased. I'm sure you've all noticed a growing trend in the story by now, which is the inclusion of songs and song lyrics. I suppose it's my way of interweaving a soundtrack. In my life, music is a pretty central and constant occurrence, so that's the terms I think in when I write the story. Sorry if it's irritating, but that's probably how it's going to continue. Here's another chapter from Naomi.**

**-GrassDitch**

In the time I had been here Emily had curled around to lean her back on my shoulder. Her warmth was comforting and most definitely welcome. The spliff made its way to her again, and she dragged on it lazily, passing it to me and sliding down so her head was in my lap. Blowing gently on the lit end of the joint I gaze down at her and resist the temptation to stroke her bright hair. I found it surprising that she hadn't decided to change the colour in all this time. I suppose that when Katie decided to change her hair colour Emily must have stuck with this one deliberately. It was probably something to do with asserting her individuality, but I should quit it with the amateur psychology.

The weight of her head was burning in my thighs, and although I could feel the blood slowly ascend into my cheeks, as I leant over to pass the joint to the third guy (I found out he was Dave) I stopped short, making him come to me from his place at the radiator so as not to disturb her.

Suddenly, the music on the radio changed dramatically, and Emily's head rose, hovering a few centimetres above my legs. It was a strange sound, a mix of genres. The vocals were blatantly Northern, a woman's high, almost squeaky voice piped the melodies and a man rapped between fast and heavy distorted guitars and bluesy saxophones. I'm not sure if I like it.

"I love this song!" Emily was instantly sat up and grinning, clearly recognising the music, although I'm not sure why it took her so long. You couldn't really mistake it for anything but what it was. "Dance?" She raised her eyebrows mischievously.

"To this? I don't think we can construct a mosh pit out of the two of us. Or even the four of us." Her brow creased, and she looked across the room. Standing up, she headed across the stifling, smoke filled room and kneeled in front of the CD player to change the disc.

"You'll dance to this, right?" _Take me out tonight, where there's music and there's people and... _This is the disadvantage of spending time with someone who knows you well, they know exactly how to manipulate you. I roll my eyes and walk across the room towards her. We sway for a while, in front of each other. The guys seem spaced, and I wonder what else they have taken.

"You just knew I'd dance to this, didn't you?" She smiled a sort of non-smile.

"You're not really dancing," she pulled my hands onto her hips; put her arms around my shoulders. I could feel her sway under my palms and she stepped achingly closer. "You used to be obsessed with this song. I never understood it, it's just too depressing."

"It's not so bad... It strikes me as kind of romantic," Her wrists begin to weigh on the back of my neck and I stoop lower, her face is close and I feel my skin gravitate towards hers. Old habits die hard?

"You keep trying to play the martyr, Naomi, but it's really not your forte," She moved closer still, the blush began to crawl along my skin, up my neck. "Do you want to get out of here?" Her lips brushed against mine as she spoke, it was like lowering the tip of your finger onto the water, the surface tension causing the water to magnetise around it; the ripples that only disturbing the surface of it all.

"I do," I breathed shortly, my eyelids gliding to a close. They flung open as I was jerked forward, and I found myself stood in the centre of the room grasping nothing but thin air.

"Coming then?"

Emily is flinging herself down the stairs in front of me, like she has enough energy to light half of the city. I, on the other hand, just want to listen to some good music, or watch some shit TV. Maybe steal a cuddle or two, if I'm lucky. Looks like she has other plans, though; God knows what's going on beneath that red hair.

"Come on, Naoms! What's with the fucking funeral march?" I raise my eyebrows and curl my lip in a mocking gesture, despite quickening my step. I watch as Emily bursts through the doors into the waning, dusty sunlight and spins around on her heel to face me. "Alright, where to?"

"Actually, I thought you had that covered. What with wanting to go somewhere..." To be honest, I'm quickly becoming exasperated with all this, and I'm beginning to feel like drinking.

"Great, real useful comment as usual."

"You're very welcome, now follow me" I'm trying to, but I can't help the emergence of a smug little smile. I lead her to the nearest main road, and we jump in a taxi.


	8. What's the use of Wonderin?

Before I've even opened my eyes I can feel the ache in my head. Then I begin to smell, alcohol and a perfume smell that is not my own apartment. Then I feel soft skin and warmth against my back. Then I hear breathing. I open my eyes and the room is striped with afternoon sun through the blinds. I sit up and crane my head to look behind me and see Naomi stretched along the bed, her mouth sagging open rather attractively. I remember when that sight would put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. This day, however, was obviously different. I turn and sit on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, trying to think of what happened last night. All this straining just makes my head hurt more, and I get up to use the sink across the room, dashing cold water onto my face. It feels like life again. Where the hell is the bathroom in this place? I open the door onto a long corridor, carpeted in a worn blue.

"Ooo, the walk of shame! And so late in the afternoon!" Admittedly, my first thought is something along the line of 'who the hell is this prick?' but I suppose, not being in my own house, it would be best not to upset the residents. "It's alright, we see it in the halls all the time," I manage to drag my head up from its stooped posture to see a girl in jeans and a rather revealing top for this time of year and I curse myself for not thinking to put some clothes on, not thinking that Naomi would live in university accommodation. Fuck it, she could be of some use.

"Where's the bathroom?" I croak. My throat is sore from whatever I was smoking last night.

"God you are rough... It's a few doors down on your left. It's a long time since we've seen anyone other than Naomi come through that door, you know." Why must everyone be so prying? Even if I did know what happened last night I wouldn't tell this girl. My heads hurts too much to rise to this. I mumble my thanks and shuffle off down the corridor.

I lock the bathroom door and lean against its cold back. The bright light of the room hurts my eyes and I steal a few more minutes trying to remember, staring at my face in the mirror. My eyeliner was smudged, and my hair looked like frayed laces, in little feathery clumps. I had a smudge of red lipstick on my right cheek. The blue grey trenches beneath my eyes stood in dark contrast to the smear, and my own lips, still stained from the night before. No wonder that girl thought this was the walk of shame. I pull as much air into my lungs as I can manage, in hopes of sighing, but it only catches and I splutter and rack as I cough pathetically in my hands. Too much smoking. I wonder if Naomi is still asleep, and if I should stay and face her, find out what happened, or take the opportunity to grab my clothes and leave. I give myself one last doubtful look in the mirror, shake my head and leave the room.

The girl is stood with a steaming cup of tea in her hands outside Naomi's door and I manage what I imagine must be a very lethargic smile. "I don't know how you like it, but lots of milk and lots of sugar always makes my head feel better." She holds out her hands, mug of steaming tea in one, two tablets in the other. I could have knelt down and kissed her feet. Instead I settled for a much more enthusiastic smile and genuine thanks. I took the mug, put the pills in my mouth and sipped the tea to wash them down. I could feel the tension in my throat begin to dissolve. "So, I'm Michelle," she smiled warmly, if not facetiously, and held out her hand.

"Emily," I shook it weakly.

"How long have you known our Naomi then, Emily?" She enunciated my name strangely, and I doubt Naomi would feel grateful for being referred to as anyone's, never mind "ours".

"Years, sometimes it even seems too long."

"Oh, so you'll know Effy, then? Effy Stoneham?" So, the cup of tea was just a fact finding mission. I could deal with that.

"Yeah, we all went to Roundview."

"Oh, wow. That's so nice," Yeah, fucking spiffy, Michelle. "I knew her brother, Tony." I was getting bored of this conversation already.

"Small world, huh? Look, I better go see if Naomi's alright. Lovely chatting, see you around maybe." The tone in my voice has degraded to cold rather than the casually friendly tone I was aiming for. She seemed a little taken aback, it seemed this girl was a little too used to social niceties.

"Oh... Uh, yeah. Have a good day." She smiled without her eyes and I returned the favour as I slipped into Naomi's room. Safe to say, hung over conversations with strangers in my underwear are not my favourite pass time. I glanced over at Naomi, who had spread herself across the bed, arms askew like a demented parachutist. Her ice blonde hair was curled across the pillow, and her face was peaceful. I chuckled to myself a little; she looked so childlike when she slept. You'd never know her if you knew her sleeping. I took the opportunity to nosey around the room a little. I skimmed across the titles on her bookshelf; Jeanette Winterson, Virginia Woolf, Tennyson, Jane Austen, Carol Ann Duffy, all English student fodder. I'm not sure how you can analyse and devour every detail of a story like that. Create little theories, read others. Fiction has this wonderful magic that it must lose when it's untied like that. Like a ball of rubber bands, ultimately confusing and quite entertaining as a whole, not quite as good when taken apart.

There came a long, dry groan from the bed, interrupting my thoughts. "Ohhh, fuck." I heard a thump and turned to see Naomi falling from the bed, "Ow. Fuck. Motherfucker. Oh, my head." She sat on the floor and leant against the bed with one hand tangled in her hair and pressed to her skull.

"Suave display, Campbell, I give it ten out of ten," I knelt down in front of her and handed her the mug of tea. "And I thought I was a mess."

"Ems... What are you doing here?" She squinted through hazy, sleep filled eyes, then shrugged and took a sip of tea. I liked her in this state, I'd love to tease her a bit. It's so pathetic it's cute.

"I'd love to tell you, but I don't really know either."

"Can't be that bad then," why was she so unconcerned? I suppose she's right, whatever happened it's not the end of the world. "Thanks for the tea, by the way. I really needed that." She must still be half asleep not to realise the thing was half empty when she got it. She put her hand to the back of her neck, pulling her hair from her shoulders. As she stretched I saw a bruised red stain where her neck began to curve into her shoulder that certainly wasn't there yesterday. I wish I knew what had happened last. "Ems, do you want to go get breakfast?"


	9. Finding the Pieces

**Just a quick note to say thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favourite etc. It's a great encouragement and I hope you're enjoying the story. Thanks for sticking around.**

**-GrassDitch**

Oh, God my head. That's my first thought, followed swiftly by an urgent desire to know the time. Then a loop begins in my head of the words "let's have some fun this beat is sick, I wanna take a ride on your disco stick." I hate club music. I groan and roll over to get out of bed and fall straight to the floor. I now understand exactly what is meant by "curiosity killed the cat." I try to shout but all I muster is a choked murmur, "Ow. Fuck. Motherfucker. Oh, my head." I can never get used to having a single bed once I'm back in university accommodation. As I'm trying to pull myself into a sitting position against the bed I'm surprised to hear Emily from the other side of the room (not that that's particularly far).

"Suave display, Campbell, I give it ten out of ten," God, the girl looks as bad as I feel. Which for her is still quite good, her hair mussed up, her eyeliner blurred and little lipsticks stains on her cheeks. It's cute. After staring at her for a while I notice that she's holding out a cup of tea. I could kiss her, "And I thought I was a mess."

"Ems... What are you doing here?" I sound like some sort of Zombie, despite the tea. It was a stupid question really; she must have just crashed here last night. We must have been a real state. I'm surprised we even made it here.

"I'd love to tell you, but I don't really know either." She sounds worried. Why is that? I suppose we were pretty gone.

"Can't be that bad then... Thanks for the tea, by the way. I really needed that." I did, I had a strange suspicion my throat would be mummified by now if she didn't give me that tea, not to mention the rest of me. It's totally gone, though. I didn't even realise I'd drank that much. I stretch and through a stifled yawn as Ems if she wants to go breakfast. She agrees. I throw on a Joy Division shirt, some faded jeans and the blazer I had on last night. I offer Emily some clothes, but she decides it would be best to go out in last night's outfit.

Instinctively I head for Leaves, and Ems follows. The conversation on the way is sparse, she doesn't seem to pick up on anything I say to her, which is unlike her. Her brow is furrowed, and she's looking at the pavement. What does she think happened last night? I remember getting in the taxi, stopping off at Emily's so she could get change, heading to a series of bars, and when it got late dancing together in a club. Dancing close, then we must have gone back to mine. Dancing close. Then going back to mine. Surely I'd remember?

When we finally reach the cafe I've thought myself into a hole. I decide to dismiss it. Maybe Michelle knows something, she must have been woken up by us coming in, she lives right next to me. However, that would require talking to her, which could be more effort than it's worth. I steal another look at Emily and realise she's still staring into the abyss, despite us nearing the door of the cafe. Okay, maybe it is worth it if it will stop her sulking.

I open the door to Leaves and the bell echoes throughout my head, like a drop of water in an empty, gargantuan cave. I swear under my breath. I look up and see Mark is working.

"Give me grease, Mark. Full breakfasts," he looks puzzled. I falter, "urgh, two. One here, and one here," I shape my fingers in an upside down "V" and wiggle them a bit, indicating Emily and I. He still looks like I'm asking full body wax while sitting on the espresso machine. I shoot him a doubtful look, he chuckles.

"Campbell, it's almost three in the afternoon. Breakfast is way over." Bastard. Now I look like a total imbecile.

"Uh," my mind is blank, I can't think of anything else on the menu for the life of me. "Well, two of something strong and black and uh..." Still blank.

"God, this is just difficult to watch. I'm sure I can muster you a couple of breakfasts up, seeing as it's you. Still waiting for that number though, Naomi." I'm beginning to think he might be worth a try if he still wants my number when he's seen me in this state. Actually, he can persist a little longer.

"You are a saint, Mark. I'm actually thinking about it," he smiles and raises his eyebrows as if to say "yeah, right", but puts the coffees on the counter all the same. We sit down in the usual spot. The place is busier than the other day, and can hear every noise amplified. The clink of cups on saucers, spoons tingling along the insides of cups, a woman incessantly tapping her finger nails, someone on the table next to us is scratching, a phone is ringing. It's all conspiring to send me mad when Emily speaks. My attention zeroes out, the other noises are gone, and all I hear is:

"Naomi," she still looks concerned, running her fingers along the rim of her mug. "Do you remember anything that happened last night?" She's slouched. She looks tired.

"The last thing I remember is dancing together in that last club. The music was terrible..."

_I could feel the thump of the bass line in my feet, throbbing up through my chest. The atmosphere boasted a damp but prickled mix of body heat and alcohol. My feet were sticking to the floor. My thoughts were lost in the movement of my hands on her hips, her clothes sliding beneath my palms, we were swaying together. A figure pushes into me, snarls "cunt", I'm affronted, but I can't recall their face, my attention is quickly pulled back. A rush like wind travelled up my body, swirling at each point of contact. Her face was close to mine; I could feel her breath on my lips. There were colours everywhere; red, blue, green, flashing into my vision then out again. Our cheeks touched, my head spun. Our lips met. Warmth. Nothing._

"Yeah, I remember dancing, Naoms. I just don't remember getting back to yours." She looks as worried as ever, and I can feel the flush creep into my cheeks. This is why I don't drink as often as I used to. My palms are warm and suddenly I don't feel like eating.

"No, me neither. We must have just got in a taxi. We're here; we're safe; why are you so worried?" As reassuring as I was trying to be, I just couldn't make that sound convincing. When I said "why are you so worried?" What I meant was "why would it be so horrible if we did?"


End file.
